


Constructions of God

by grab_the_cute_angel_and_salt



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dystopia, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:02:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grab_the_cute_angel_and_salt/pseuds/grab_the_cute_angel_and_salt





	Constructions of God

The first thing he notices when he wakes is the cold. It’s deep and piercing, the kind you feel right down to your bones. The second thing he notices is the date. He finds the cold ironic then, like some sort of sick foreshadow of what today is; today is the day his whole family will squeeze into the grey room with featureless walls, amongst hundreds of other terrified families, and wish that it would be anyone but someone from their small family. He thinks it seems fitting.   
The third thing he notices is the sound of his mother’s boisterous singing echoing from the kitchen; she acts as if it is any other day, because that’s easier to accept. 

He rolls out of bed, feet hitting the cold wood of his floor. The heating must have gone out in the night, he speculates, making his way to the kitchen without bothering to even change his pajamas.   
The first thing he does when he gets there is greet his mother and take his usual spot at the table.   
They exchange no other words until the food is set on the table and he thanks her.   
She nods in response and busies herself cleaning the pans. She never ate breakfast, said something one time about how it upsets her stomach to eat so early.   
He, of course, finds it odd that she preaches it to be the most important meal of the day and yet skips it herself.   
He doesn’t make this comment. 

Forty-five and a half minutes later their small family is leaving to go to the room, each holding onto each other by one means or another.   
You never know who may be chosen, after all.   
They take their seats in the nearly silent rooms, all arranged by family. They sit in the left corner, third row to the back.   
A few other families rush in, some with only three people, some with up to five, but all holding onto each other as if it is their last chance to. They take their seats, one in the right corner, two rows to the front. One behind them, and one to the left, in three seats only. Their son appears to be nine, and he seems nervous.   
He tries not to think about it too much. An announcer’s voice begins to speak clearly once everyone is seated. He tries to not pay much attention to the people getting up and going to the front, too afraid he’ll see someone he knows. The sound of tears echoes quietly in the silences between the announcer’s word.   
He watches as a mother kisses her child's head, whispering a goodbye and hurrying to the front.  
The announcer’s voice slows, nearing the end of the list.  
His name is called. He tries to remain calm, pressing a kiss to each of his small family’s foreheads before getting up and walking to the front.  
He looks to them when he gets to the front. His mother is crying, clutching his father’s sleeve and watching him. He doesn't risk looking to his other family members, trying desperately to not let the hopelessness of his situation in. 

They stand there for a moment, and then soldiers come to march the chosen group out.   
They go willingly.   
A shot is heard before he even leaves the doorway fully. Birds scatter.   
The last thing he notices is the red of the grass, stained dark with the blood of the one before him.   
And then it all is dark.


End file.
